"All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears.

And wisest he in this whole wide land Of hoarding till bent and gray; For all you can hold in your cold, dead hand Is what you have given away. . . . . He gave with a zest and he gave his best; Give him the best to come.

Lo! darkness bends down like a mother of grief On the limitless plain, and the fall of her hair It has mantled a world.

He gives twice who gives quickly. [Lat., Bis dat qui cito dat.] - credited to Publius Syrus Mimus,

All crush'd and stone-cast in behaviour, She stood as a marble would stand, Then the Saviour bent down, and the Saviour In silence wrote on in the sand.

'Tis midnight now. The bend and broken moon, Batter'd and black, as from a thousand battles, Hangs silent on the purple walls of Heaven.